Queen of the Underworld
by Aelin Ashryver Galathynius
Summary: The five novellas really bothered me, because they didn't tell much of what happened before The Assassin and the Pirate Lord, so this is about Celaena's life leading up to the first novella. {I'll do my best to update, but sometimes I get far too busy... e.e}
1. Chapter 1

The girl lying on the banks of the Florine shivered again and curled into a feeble position, hoping to preserve whatever heat remained. Her blond hair shone with frost that glittered in moonlight. The man striding towards her with a unnatural feline grace only shook his head and lifted her as if she weighed nothing more than a feather.

She trembled violently, from both fear and something she couldn't name. Fear, from the image of her murdered parents' blood soaking through her nightgown and coating her skin. A cold fury twisted in her gut, making the half-frozen river seem like an oven.

The stench of filth and rotting meat assaulted her nose as they entered the city. There were a few late night stragglers milling about, but they dispersed like cockroaches in a bright light.

Her savior brought her into an elegant manor house, to the stares of its inhabitants. He barked something she couldn't understand, nor did she try to. What did it matter? Her parents were still dead in Terrasen, and she couldn't change it.

He laid her onto a bed, and spread a heavy blanket over her. It encased her in a wonderful heat, and she breathed a sigh before falling into a deep sleep.

* * *

She woke to arguing voices. Actually, it was more of a one-way fight, where someone snarled an order and the other obeyed furiously. A door slamming shut, a string of curses. She felt a warm breath on her neck and held back her shudder.

"I know you're awake, girl." It was the man again, the strange man who had saved her. She lifted a hand to her neck absently, then gave a cry and bolted upright. Her amulet- the sacred heirloom of her house- it was gone. Lost in a river, perhaps. Her mother had warned her to keep it safe not a fortnight ago... With a defeated sigh, she slumped against the headboard, and took in the stranger.

He was stunning, with rich red hair reaching his waist pulled into a loose ponytail. Money wasn't a problem- that much was evident in his clothing: a velvet black cloak and polished leather boots. A sword hung from his belt, costly jewels inlaid in the hilt.

She lifted her gaze and clashed with piercing silver eyes. They would have been attractive if not for the calculated, cold look he gave her.

"Just 'girl'?" she asked in the soft, lilting voice of Terrasen's court.

The man hid his emotions surprisingly well. Her eyes probed at his features, trying to find something, anything that portrayed his humanity. Nothing. Not even a glimmer in his eyes that hinted of his intentions. "Arobynn Hamel, Your Majesty." He gave a little bow.

Her breath caught in her throat. He was the King of Assassins, and knew what her title meant to her- knew just how to break apart the walls keeping her grief at bay. How long had she been out? "Aelin," she choked. "Princess Aelin Ashryver Galathynius."

But she was queen now, the Queen of Terrasen since that morning she'd woken up from a servant's screams, since the day Lady Marion was murdered. Arobynn inclined his head ever so slightly. She tried to hide her shaking hands, but she sensed he knew precisely what his jab would do.

"I know." Of course he knew. She had house Ashryver's eyes. Bright blue, with a gold ring circling her pupil. She offered a bitter smile before turning to inspect the intricate paintings on the walls. They were of animals- predators. Of striking asps from the Red Desert and stalking tigers from the Bogdano Jungle.

"Train as my assassin, Aelin." She froze.

Oh gods, no, she couldn't, simply_ couldn't _kill anyone, not after her parents' murders... Ravenous fear ate through her veins. If she refused, she knew what he'd do- hand her over to those that wanted her dead. The King of Adarlan perhaps, who had so easily ordered the end of the Galathynius line. If she accepted, she'd be washing her hands in blood, just like the assassin who'd killed her parents. _Just like Arobynn, _she thought bitterly.

Survival and her conscience waged war inside her mind. Live as a murderer, or die. Die at the hands of the king.

Arobynn wasn't even giving her a real choice. So she smiled humorlessly. "What do I have to lose, then?"


	2. Chapter 2

Aelin walked up the stairs, trembling violently. The screams of the man still echoed in her ears as she tortured him, finally giving her the information Arobynn wanted. He hadn't told her anything, merely nodding and leaving her to finish him off.

The dagger she had slid between his ribs was a relief, for him and herself. She didn't know if she could bring herself to inflict another scratch on his twisted and broken body. His hoarse shriek had spewed blood, the only drops she was glad he lost.

Arobynn waited for her in his office, examining papers like nothing had happened. Aelin sat on the chair, barely able to keep from toppling over. She didn't feel the smallest spark of guilt at the bloody trail her hands left leading from the dungeons. Drops soaked into his exquisite red carpet and her dark pants, but she couldn't think past the pounding of her heart and the screams threatening to burst free from her lips.

He continued reading- she considered slapping him, but she knew he wouldn't move until he was ready. Perhaps he'd move if she stabbed him… There was still one clean dagger left in her belt, one she would be more than happy to jam home in his chest.

"Celaena Sardothien, my heir," he mused. She lifted her head shakily, still adjusting to her new name. "How entertaining it would be if the king learned of your identity? Aelin, the usurped eleven-year old princess of Terrasen, is Celaena Sardothien, Adarlan's most feared assassin." He chuckled.

She flicked her eyes to the door. Wesley, Arobynn's bodyguard, stood alert, oblivious to the high treason going on. "How does it feel to be my protégée? To be my best assassin at such a young age?"

It asked for an answer; she wasn't sure if she could speak without snapping entirely. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she forced her voice to steady and take on a bored tone. "Like the worst thing I'd ever been." Arobynn smiled and raised his gaze to meet hers.

"You have a new job." Panic washed over her senses. No- she couldn't kill anyone now- maybe she'd never be able to work for Arobynn again. The river of blood flowing down the drain flashed in her vision, leaving her even more shaken than before. He laughed at her discomfort.

"I need you to welcome a courtesan to the Keep. Archer Finn- you've heard of him before?" She had. His name was purred by the elegant ladies dressed in extravagant gowns wandering the streets of Rifthold. She didn't have anything against gowns- rather, she loved them. The grudge was against the women, the wives or lovers of the courtiers that worked for the king.

But Arobynn wasn't asking for confirmation. He knew already what her answer would be, so she didn't bother with a nod. "He'll be here to train later this evening. I expect Madame Clarisse's appraisal." That was her dismissal. She stood, bribing herself with a trip to the market to keep her legs from shaking.

It was better, now that she had drilled into herself that Arobynn was the true monster, that he was the King of Assassins, not herself. That he had _forced_ her hand to move the blade, to snap his bones like nothing was between her fingers.

A sharp crack echoed through the air, followed by a scream of agony. She shuddered in remembrance.

Servants had prepared a bath, scented lightly with lavender. Celaena was glad- she longed to cleanse her hands of the blood, though the stain on her soul would never leave her. The man wasn't her first kill. That honor had gone to the assassin that murdered her parents and chased her into the river. She had been nine.

* * *

Archer Finn was easily the most beautiful man Celaena had ever seen. There was really no other way to put it- he wasn't handsome the way other male courtesans were, nor particularly athletic. But he had a practiced way of looking at everything, of noting the smallest details.

Celaena watched him spin gracefully through the training room, her hands planted on her hips. Archer couldn't have been that much older than her- several years, at the most. His fists nearly connected with Ben's face, but at the last second, Arobynn's second swept the courtesan's legs out from underneath him.

Archer gasped as he hit the floor, blinking in defeat as Ben pinned his arms down. Celaena pushed from the wall and hardened her features. "This isn't a dancing lesson, Finn," she barked. "Ben is an assassin, not some festival acrobat teaching you to dance. Get up!"

It must have sounded strange, a child training Archer. But nonetheless, he struggled to his feet and glanced at her expectantly.

She pursed her lips before planting a smile on her face. If he was so easy to wallop, at least she'd have fun doing it. Archer rolled onto the pads of his feet in a defensive stance. The assassin took a brief glance and plastered a look of pure naïveté on her face. "Can you teach me how waltz?" she whispered. Strands of her blonde hair to fell over her face.

He began to circle her like a predator, but Celaena just closed her eyes and listened. Ragged breathes- he was tired. It would limit her game, but at least there was a game. A pair of feet joined his, one she recognized as Ben's. A wicked smile tugged at her lips.

His breathing suddenly sped up; Celaena danced to the side, eyes flying open. She let the grin spread as she parried a punch and sent him to the ground, moaning in pain.

Something hit her _hard_ in the back. She had almost forgotten about Ben. "Learn how to dance before teaching me, Archer," she purred, stalking to the other side of the ring. Ben followed closely- the moment they were far enough from the courtesan, he lunged.

Celaena dove to the side, leaping to her feet and barely avoiding a blow to her cheekbone. It would have left a nasty bruise there, and she was in no mood to explain to Arobynn.

They darted across the ring, no more than a whirlwind of fists and grunts. A year before, she would have received quite the beating from Ben, but since Arobynn had personally trained her, the tides had fallen in her favor.

She finally managed to duck past his guard and swing a leg into his chest. He fell to the ground, and before he could recover, she planted a knee into his chest, her hands clamped around his arms. A malicious laugh bubbled from her throat. Arobynn would be pleased.

There was utter silence. Celaena found Archer slack-jawed, his eyes bulging. "That," she answered, shaking her hair from her face, "was the assassins' dance."


	3. Chapter 3

Arobynn drummed his fingers against his desk, his face impassive and unreadable. Celaena crossed her legs and breathed a tiny sigh, her mind wandering again. She'd been here for nearly an hour now, summoned but not spoken to.

His fingers paused. Celaena leaned forward. "How is Finn?"

She grit her teeth. _This _is what she had been waiting for? "He's fine," she replied sourly. "Good teachers, fast learner." A smirk tugged at her lips.

"Ah. Someone wants Lord Darryl six feet under." He lifted his head, finally meeting her eyes.

Celaena pursed her lips in thought. "It has excellent pay." The King of Assassins smiled coldly, satisfied with the nod she gave. "You have two weeks." She froze. Two weeks for a nobleman?

"Two weeks?" she echoed her thoughts.

He raised his eyebrow. "Is there a problem?" His tone held a menacing promise. So she shook her head and left the office, her hands brushing the reassuring hilts of her hunting daggers.

Her footfalls were silent as she made her way to her rooms. A servant had drawn a bath in her rooms, one she was grateful for.

She emerged from the bath an hour later, hair damp. A dark cloak hid her face, her exquisite daggers sheathed in a belt. While most in the Guild preferred broadswords to end their prey, she favored her hunting daggers, smaller and stealthier.

No one gave her a second look as she strode through the streets, blending into the shadows. Darryl lived in the inner ring, close to the glass castle. A single look at Adarlan's pride sent her stomach plummeting and a wave of nausea crashing through her senses.

The assassin scaled a nearby manor with ease, her gloved fingers finding purchase on uneven stones. She perched on the roof like a bird, eyes scouring the streets for the lord.

Her efforts were rewarded when the main doors opened at precisely three in the afternoon, a sizable man emerging into the sunlight. Not a minute later, he stepped into an ornate carriage, the coachman snapping the horses into a smooth gait.

She leapt from house to house, her landings edged with a predatory grace. Darryl stopped in front of a busy tavern, entering with a lusting grin plastered on his face. Celaena waited before sliding down a drainpipe and following him inside.

The stench hit her first. It reeked of sweat and ale and vomit, and Celaena nearly doubled over. Crowds were gathered, cheering for the fights in the rings.

No sooner had she stepped inside, there was a hand on her shoulder. She looked up into a grin, and immediately regretted it. He grinned even broader.

"Busy, darling?" he slurred. "I'm in need of some aid from a woman." Celaena's lip curled and whirled behind him, leaning in close to whisper in his ear.

"As a matter of fact, I am busy." She slammed a fist into his head and he fell. Let the barkeep think what he wanted. A drunken brawl, perhaps.

She managed to catch a glimpse of red hair before Darryl slid into a back room. Celaena turned away before she truly vomited. She knew what lay in those rooms- unfortunate girls hoping to survive another day. Even the mere thought disgusted her.

So she joined a crowd, pushing her way to the center. Two men threw clumsy punches, stumbling like the drunks they were. Perhaps she'd fight once, give this stinkhole something to gossip about. It could give her away though.

One glance at the crowd told her enough. There were several somber spectators, calmly observing the fight.

They roared suddenly, and her gaze flicked back to the fight. It had ended, the unconscious loser being dragged out of the ring by a pair of burly dark-skinned men. The triumphant winner had his arms raised in the air, beaming in victory.

The roar changed to a chant. "Fight, fight, fight!" Celaena pressed against the railing, and when no one volunteered, she heaved a sigh. Gods, she couldn't wait like this forever, or she'd die of boredom. And-

Darryl stepped out of the room, adjusting his shirt. She slipped from the crowd and stalked him through crowded markets and empty roads. The sunset washed the sky in an array of lovely colors that she couldn't help but imagine as a gown. It'd go nicely with the opal necklace she owned… When he got home, he didn't exit the house until morning.

* * *

It was the same every day. He'd leave for the castle early in the morning, return at noon, and leave for the tavern at three. She followed him for a week until she grew bored and returned to the Keep.

Celaena grinned as he separated from the crowd. He made his way to a small back street. She darted ahead, climbing a short wall to get there first. And she leaned against the wall, her face buried in her hands, forcing tears and anguished sobs.

Darryl approached her when he heard. "Is there something wrong, miss?" This was where her sea-foam lace gown came in. Its low cut revealed a generous amount of her bosom, and the sleeves were no more that ribbons of fabric, artfully arranged.

"My father arranged a marriage, but I know not to whom!" She allowed another sob. He took a step closer. One more, and she could jam her dagger home. Her finger twitched in anticipation.

"Terribly sorry miss, but perhaps you could ask your father to reconsider?"

"He would never-" She took a deep breath and calmed her cries. "He is so ambitious, always wanting more, more of everything. Power, money. Unless you have more than my betrothed, Father would never end the engagement."

She ducked her head and stared at the ground. It wouldn't be hard to kill him now, but this was entertaining. Enough for her to press her arms against her sides. A flicker of greed flashed across his eyes. "You could be my mistress. I'd make you happy. _Very_ happy."

Her control snapped. Gods, he was at least thrice her age! She pulled the hidden dagger from the folds of her gown and drew it across his throat before he had finished speaking. Her lip curled in disgust.

"Whoremonger," she hissed, and left him writhing in the alley, clutching his open throat and gargling that familiar death rattle she gifted so well.


End file.
